1781: Crane Manor
by the-bird-howl
Summary: Abbie gets sent back to 1781 three years after Ichabod awakens in Sleepy Hollow, and three years into the Witnesses' fight against evil. After finding herself being made a servant in the Crane's humble manor two months before Ichabod's death, Abbie struggles with defeating the demons that plague Rev Era America. FULL SUMMARY INSIDE. Rated M. IchabodxAbbie in later chapters.
1. Douglas Valley

**1781: CRANE MANOR**

**COMPLETE SUMMARY: **Abbie gets sent back to 1781, three years after Ichabod awakens in Sleepy Hollow, and three years into the Witnesses' fight against evil. After finding herself being made a servant in the Crane's humble manor two months before Ichabod's death, Abbie struggles with defeating the evils that plague Revolutionary America. But now she must battle them with a version of Crane she's never met before.

**Rating: **Rated M for violence, language and later sexual content.

**A/N: **Hello, and welcome! I'm pretty excited for this fic already, even though I've only mapped about the first 5 chapters. After binging the first season for like the 3rd time I decided that I really wanted to see Abbie in the Rev. Era, and so this fic was born. It was a total labor of love, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Much love,

-Howl

* * *

_CHAPTER 1: DOUGLAS VALLEY_

It was six o'clock at night on a Sunday, when an intruder broke into the Graham's home and attempted to take Mrs. Elizabeth Graham's life.

Well, at least that's what the official statement filed by Captain Frank Irving said.

Mrs. Graham however, had been spewing nonsense about ghosts and revenge and blood, when a group of teenagers found her wandering through the forest behind her home in Sleepy Hollow. There was no trace of an intruder anywhere on site; the only thing left that could be used as evidence were the very bloody remains of her blonde labrador (Trudy) that was strewn across a field of oak trees forty yards into a thick line of trees behind her subdivision home.

For most of the precinct, Mrs. Graham's case was not cause for alarm. But Captain Irving insisted that precautions be taken in order to protect Mrs. Graham and her husband Philip, to whom she'd been wed forty years. What Captain Irving had kept from his inferiors however, was that Elizabeth's cries of ghosts and revenge and blood had shaken him to his very core.

Thirty minutes before they are called in on that same Sunday, Lieutenant Abbie Mills is losing in a game of Scrabble to Professor Ichabod Crane, while sitting in the very run down archives of the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department.

"Phobia? Really Crane?" _That's just not fair_. _And he got a triple word score, dammit!_ She'd managed to rack up some points with 'jukebox', but at this point there was no way she could catch up with him... Not when he was pulling words like 'exhibition' and 'quartz'.

He wasn't even fully paying attention, either. While Abbie was struggling to anagram her letters by cheating on her Webster's Dictionary app, Crane was sitting in his arm chair reading a musty reference text and only occasionally moving around his letters. Abbie rooted her hand around in the letter bag, hoping for a non-vowel.

"Grrrr!" she complained, throwing the piece into the air, over her shoulder. In Crane's mind, it roughly translated to a saying he was fond of: '_This day continues to bare gifts'. _She'd started saying it a few months back, claiming his words had been the perfect melding of sarcasm and Revolutionary Era Charm. "Another fucking '_E'_!"

"Language, Lieutenant," he chided good-naturedly, looking up from the heavy book that sat across his lap. She met his eyes and found them hinted with a jovial glint, a slight grin tugging at his lips. He'd gotten used to her colorful language (and it wasn't unlike himself to throw around a few curses when he was in the mood; though it mostly consisted of '_bloody hell!_' and '_bugger!_'), but never stopped trying to get her to quit, "You have been informed that the letters are supposed to be placed on the board, correct?"

She knew he was taking the piss, but that didn't stop her from being snarky, "You know what Crane? I'll show you where that piece can go, you can shove it right up your-"

But before she could finish the treat, and before he could once again reprimand her profanities, her iPhone rang. The only sounds in the Archive were the three rings of her mobile as Abbie composed herself, before answering the call.

"Lieutenant Mills," her voice was level again, but she'd almost slipped up and pronounced her titled as '_Left_tenant' as Crane so often called her.

"No Captain, we're not doing anything. Crane's just whipping my ass at Scrabble." Ichabod's eyes followed her around the room as she pushed away from the table and stood, smiling at something Captain Irving had said. He could hear the muffled words of Irving's voice against her ear, but the sound was too quiet for him to make them out. Abbie's mouth suddenly furrowed, her full lips tightening in disapproval. Ichabod didn't miss a beat as she gave her farewells to the Captain and ended their call. He straightening in his seat, awaiting her recountment of the short conversation.

"A woman at Douglas Valley is saying she was attacked by a ghost," she made her way closer to the door, "Irving wants us to check it out. Said he'd explain everything when we got there."

He nodded and got up to follow her, closing his large book and abandoning their game. They had to make a detour to Abbie's cubicle in the station before going to her car: she'd forgotten her keys in her office desk, and needed to retrieve them.

The precinct was full to the brim today. Officers shuffled about, teaming to work on their cases or interrogate a vic. On their way out the door, Abbie's car key in hand, they were stopped abruptly in the main corridor.

Sat upon a wooden bench across from Irving's office was Jenny, her right hand cuffed to the armrest of her seat. Her curly hair was pulled back as always, along with her ever present frown. Luke was standing beside her, scowling down at her. His face softened when he looked up and saw Abbie rushing down the hallway, but tensed back up when he spotted Crane tailing behind her.

"Hey Abbie," the officer greeted, still trying to win back her favor.

Abbie ignored Luke as she jogged towards the bench her younger sister was cuffed to. "Jenny what happened?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but Luke was quicker, making ignoring his existence impossible. "This one was caught shoplifting in the Wawa downtown," he nodded to the woman sitting down when he spoke the words _'this one'_; his hands were on his hips in attempt to make himself look more intimidating (to who though, Abbie wasn't sure).

Jenny didn't return her sister's gaze as she shrugged, "My finger slipped."

"I believe the word _kleptomania_ is one you should familiarize yourself with, Miss Jenny." Crane said, disapproving as he looked down at her. After three years he'd begun to think of Jenny as a sister, always trying to look out for her, and impart wisdom when it applied.

"Not helping, Crane," Abbie said, looking over her shoulder to her fellow Witness.

Abbie turned back to her ex-boyfriend, "Uncuff her. You can deal with this later." Jenny's was a frequent face in the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department after being released from Terrytown Hospital two years ago. Even though she'd only had herself arrested to keep Abbie safe from the demon Ancitif, the adrenaline fueled thrill of occasional shoplifting never left her.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." She could tell Luke was trying to keep his cool. When they'd been dating she could remember how he would have flashes of anger if he was excited too quickly.

"The key, Luke. Now."

"No way, Abbie," Luke's hands left his hips as he used them to gesture widely, "she's a convict. She's not allowed to leave the station until the report is processed."

"Look, you wanna talk to someone about this? Talk to Irving." Abbie's voice was clipped. She really didn't feel like dealing with Luke today, "She might be your convict, but she's still a consultant to the Captain." A few months after Jenny had been made a permanent member of Team Anti-Apocalypse, Irving decided it would be best she be made a consultant to the station, so she wouldn't raise suspicion when spotted around crime scenes.

"What? Like the Professor, here?" Luke turned his neck to give the Brit a once over that ended at Crane's eyes, their height differences accentuated when Luke looked up into Ichabod's face and scowled.

"Exactly like that," Abbie sneered, reaching into her pocket and using her own key to unlock Jenny's handcuffs. The younger Mills stood, rubbing at her wrist where the shackle had cut into her skin. Abbie prodded her sister to walk forward, placing a hand at the small of her back. Crane tagged along when Abbie finally turned back to Luke and said, deadpan, "Don't worry, I'll be sure she makes the court date."


	2. Under the Mistletoe

**A/N: **Wooh! Two chapters in one day! This once is a lot longer than the first, so that's cool. I'm a bit worried that Crane is getting OOC

As always, much love

-Howl

* * *

_CHAPTER 2: UNDER THE MISTLETOE_

_God almighty_. She wanted to run her tongue along his neck more than anything in the world.

But who could blame her? Because, in Abbie's defense, _what the fuck was the point of the First Witness being a hot-ass piece of manmeat if the Second Witness- namely herself- couldn't fuck his brains out?_ It honestly made no sense to her.

_Jesus, get a grip Abbie._

It was true that she found Crane exceedingly attractive (all sinewy muscle, and rustic features. Her kink for continuously hearing him call her 'Miss Mills' even after years of intimate acquaintanceship didn't hurt either), but she still respected the fact that he was a married man. Even if said married man's _wife_ was trapped in an endless purgatory with no means of escape.

_No, Abbie- just NO._

She wasn't going to ruin her friendship with Crane just because she thought she might love him in a non-platonic way.

"Lieutenant?"

The call of Crane's voice pulled her out of her internal soliloquy, and when she found his face she was instantly frozen once again, trapped by that damned beard of his. The length of his neck was stretched as he gazed up into the branches of a tree that stood before him, Adam's apple defined beneath the point where his facial hair ended and his alabaster skin began. As he reached up to thumb the leaves of his specimen, the fluid fabric of his billowing tunic (that he still insisted on wearing occasionally, even after she demanded he change wardrobe. She didn't want to be mean about it, but his original clothes had become rank after 3 years of nonstop action) tightening against the defined muscle of his athletic waist.

_God, he's so attractive. And he doesn't even know it._

She finally refocused on the task at hand, and found herself surrounded by a thorny bramble. Inspecting the forest above her, she could see the tell tale leathery foliage of a parasitic plant. It was the same greenery that was growing on the oak Crane stood before, as well as inside the Graham's home.

"Mistletoe?" She looked to Crane for confirmation, who nodded his head enthusiastically in return: '_Looks like we're getting somewhere'_, it said.

Her brow furrowed, "But mistletoe doesn't grow naturally in Sleepy Hollow, or even in the woods around it."

"Correct, Miss Mills." he nodded, congratulating her on the deduction. He returned his sights back to investigating the plant, eyes alight with the information streaming through his frankly amazing eidetic mind, "This particular brand of flora- _Viscus album-_ can only be found in Europe, as well as some parts of Asia. So the questions we should be asking are thus: _Who raises mistletoe in these woods, and for what purpose?_"

"Purpose?" Abbie turned her eyes from Crane back to the oak being strangled by mistletoe. Behind her, Jenny was treading lightly across the woods near the police tape outlining their crime scene, trying to avoid being spotted by her sister. She plucked a leaf from the plant above her, and made her way past Captain Irving, towards the Lieutenant.

"According to various legends, mistletoe can be used as a deterrent to ward off certain demons- like a kind of shield, to protect you." Jenny pitched in, stepping across a log and joining the Witnesses.

Abbie's eyebrow arched as she cocked her head and turned to look at her sister, "I thought I told you to stay in the car?" It wasn't a question, but it sure sounded like one.

"It's been like an hour. And besides, when has you telling me what to do ever worked?"

Ichabod bowed his head, as to not tangle in a low-hanging branch, as he quickly escaped the crossfire of his bickering allies. Crane had learned the hard way not to intervene in the '_You can't tell me how to live my life!'_ fight. Usually he would attempt to separate the siblings during a heated argument, but this bout would last no more than a few minutes: Miss Jenny would grow tired of the good Lieutenant's constant nagging, and just walk away, leaving her older sister to trail after her, shouting criticisms.

From behind the trunk of another unhealthy oak, where he could still hear Abbie's heated words, Ichabod studied the parasite clinging to the dying branches.

The squabble climaxed quicker than expected, resulting in (as anticipated) Jenny storming away from Abbie, back to the car, and Abbie shouting something about not touching the firearms in her trunk. Miss Jenny, who of course always needed to have the last word, muttered to herself that she could always use her own damn gun, she's got like twelve.

Ichabod dared to sneak a look at the fuming Lieutenant, who was cradling her forehead in her right hand, while supporting the arm with her left. She looked defeated, once again unable to go a few hours without avoiding domestics while trying to help to save the world. She composed herself with a sigh, and pushed the loose fringe of her hair away before taking the steps to stand beside Crane, unable to look away from the dirt floor.

"Alright, Lieutenant?" he asked of his fellow Witness, unable to see her distressed.

She met his face with the tug of a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, "Fine," her voice was clipped, unsteady. She cleared her throat, and took the mistletoe clipping he held in his hand; she saw him reach for it reflexively as she grabbed it from him, but he kept quiet, and said nothing to get it back.

"So," she began, twisting the twig between her thumb and forefinger, examining the small berries, "mistletoe. Wards off evil, huh? Does that include the ghost that the vic saw back at Douglas Valley?"

"Perhaps. When we first entered the Graham's home, their entryway was decorated with holly and-"

"Mistletoe." Abbie finished for him, picking up his trail. Over the past few years their minds had begun to function on the same wavelength, occasionally spooking Irving to the point of believing that a Vulcan Mind Meld had been involved (Abbie then had to explain the Mind Meld to Crane, followed by explaining Star Trek, which led to twelve hours of couchsurfing between Abbie's apartment and Crane's cabin to finish the first season of _Star Trek: The Original Series_ between bouts of saving the world. Sufficed to say that Crane left Abbie's apartment with bloodshot eyes and a much broader scope of the universe).

"Exactly. At first I had dismissed it for simple Yuletide folly, but perhaps…"

"Perhaps, Mr. Graham knows more than he says he does."

Ichabod nodded in agreement. When they interrogated the husband, Mr. Graham continuously stuttered over his words and couldn't keep his recountment straight, "It would explain why the wraith had only appeared to Missus Graham and did not attack her." The gestures he made with his clenched hands became more animated as the cogs in his mind began connecting, beginning on a new thought.

"The holiday season has barely begun, and although your generation seems to be fascinated with the idea of decorating for each new holiday the moment the former has ended: does it not seem strange to furnish for Christmas during late October?"

"Yeah, I did think it was kinda weird…" Abbie's voice petered out to a soft hum, as she looked around the crime scene. The dozen officers that still remained were interviewing the few witnesses on clarifications, while taking notes in their small books.

"Alright…" Abbie finally sighed, massaging her forehead in defeat, "Let's see what we can find back at the station. Got everything you need?"

"Indeed, Miss Mills." Crane assured her, plucking his mistletoe clipping out of her small hand and placing it into the evidence bag he'd been keeping in his coat pocket. Abbie rolled her eyes as he made a show of zipping it closed, the tug of her smile finally feeling genuine.

The ground turned from dirt to asphalt as the Witnesses made their way back to Abbie's Jeep. Abbie yawned loudly before pulling the keys from her pocket, only to ignite a similar cry from Crane. She laughed. "So, Starbuck's then?" she suggested, in the mood for a pick-me-up.

"Assuredly." Their selection of teas was sub-par, but Crane could appreciate the option of an espresso-shot on rare occasions. "Will Miss Jenny be riding back to the precinct with us?"

"You can ask her yourself, if you want," Abbie gestured to her younger sister, who Crane had not yet noticed to be splaying herself across Abbie's car, the heels of her hands behind her on the hood. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something the Captain had said. He as well was chuckling, the pearly white of his teeth happily on display, and the phone perpetually holding his attention surprisingly hidden in his breast pocket (apparently along with his ever-present scowl). Abbie had a hard time admitting that she thought Irving might reciprocate her sister's feelings for him, however hard Jenny tried to deny her own towards the Captain.

Abbie used the electronic car key to unlock the vehicle, making Jenny and Irving jump apart at the honk. Jenny scowled at her older sister, who only smirked back, Crane shaking his head in Abbie's peripheral.

"We're headed back to the precinct to do some research," the Lieutenant told her superior, stepping closer to her car as Crane climbed into to the passenger side. Abbie looked over to her sister on the hood, "Coming with?"

"Yeah," Jenny replied, jumping off the Jeep. She glanced back at Irving and smirked, ushering him out of the way, before opening the door beside him and sliding into the car.

"You're staying here, right?" Abbie asked, looking up to Irving's face as she reached for her door handle.

He nodded. "Yeah. They guys here want to look around one more time before heading back, I thought I'd stay and help."

"Alright, see you there," she waved lazily before climbing into the driver's side and starting the Jeep, its engine roaring to life beneath her.

As they pulled away from the crime scene, the forest was quickly replaced by the suburban community surrounding it. November was Sleepy Hollow's rainy season, and many of the endless potholes along the road we littered with puddles, each more dangerous to drive through than the last. Abbie tried to avoid them, but would occasionally miss one and violently rock the passengers of her Jeep, cursing and apologizing as she tried to right them again.

"Okay," Abbie started, as she turned onto Main Street, avoiding yet another hole in the road, "Jenny you seem to know the most about the mistletoe." She looked at her sister through the rearview mirror, only able to catch a glimpse of her sister's fierce eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

"Sure." Jenny clearer her throat and made herself comfortable in the limited space of the backseat (Crane liked to take up most of the space by pushing his chair all the way back, to make room for with ridiculously long legs). "Basically, mistletoe was primarily used by the Celtics to scare away any type of evil spirit: Faeries, ghosts, daemons. A lot of them hung it over their beds to scare away bad dreams."

"Like a dreamcatcher?"

"Yeah." Jenny nodded in confirmation, "But it was more than that. Other cultures around the world took to wearing talismans made of mistletoe to protect themselves from harm. Like a good luck charm."

In the corner of her eye Abbie could see Crane trying to focus, eyes closed and hands pressed together at the bottom of his nose, as if in prayer. It made Abbie grin. "You're thinking pretty hard over there. Anything you'd like to share with the class?"

The moment of study was shattered by Abbie's interruption, but Crane had gathered enough from the bowels of his memory, "I had not thought of the tale for a long time, until Miss Jenny mentioned the Celtic mythologies; but when I was young, my father once told me the story of Baldr, the Celtic god, who was defeated with an arrow of mistletoe. "

"Not that you'd need it." the younger Mills goaded, "Just fire that famous Abbie death-stare his way, and you'd be good as gold."

Abbie wanted to shoot her sister a death stare that moment, but settled for tightening her grip on the steering wheel instead, her knuckles whitening. "Care to roll back the attitude?"

"Well, just because you're the Chosen One, it doesn't mean I have to be nice to you."

"I'm not the Chosen One," Abbie scowled, shooting her sister a glare from the rearview mirror.

Jenny snorted, leaning back into her seat and muttered, "Close enough."

Crane shifted awkwardly when Abbie turned into the precinct parking lot. "Ergo, the employment of such a plant would make those who use it deadly to such evils." he supplied, hoping to put them back on track.

Jenny nodded from the backseat, unbuckling as Abbie pulled into her parking space, "Exactly."


	3. Coven

**A/N:** Hello everyone! There's only a few of you right now, but I already am floored by the positive responses I've gotten on the first two chapters, they warm this young author's heart. The beginning of this chapter was meant to be attached to the end of Chapter 2, but I felt like it was getting too long, so I cut it. I think I like it better this way.

Much love!

-Howl

* * *

_CHAPTER 3: COVEN_

It was four o'clock the next afternoon by the time either Witness found anything of use.

Scattered about the bookmarked pages of old texts, scrolls, and different copies of the Bible, were the empty Starbuck's cups from last night Abbie never bothered to throw away, and Chinese takeout boxes that she'd gotten delivered an hour before. Crane had refused to open his fortune cookie so Abbie took his, and enjoyed the second just as well as her first. Jenny had been with them earlier, but disappeared sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 PM (Abbie suspected it was to 'bother' Captain Irving again).

"Hey, listen to this," the Lieutenant declared, breaking the silence in the old archive.

Abbie sat perched on a bar stool behind the tall desk at the center of their office. Crane had camped out in his armchair beside the unlit fireplace. They'd moved much of the junk and dust bunnies out years ago, but it still held the same old Revolutionary charm (i.e. musty books and furniture from the Ghost of Centuries Past, as far as Abbie was concerned). She moved closer to Crane and pushed a thick book into his lap, pointing to an excerpt.

"_Wraith_." she read over his shoulder, "Popular mostly in European cultures and mythology; they are the remnants of violent souls pulled from a human body." The book's illustration depicted a frightening monster. It was the same creature that Mrs. Graham had described while her mind was still muddled from the adrenaline of almost being murdered. Before all of the Apocalypse/Horseman nonsense, this creature was once the image Abbie thought was synonymous with Death itself: a total Grim Reaper. Hood and everything, scythe not included (of course now she'd actually met Death: Abraham Van Brunt- former aristocrat and lady-killer, turned slave to Moloch- who neither carried a scythe or wore a cape).

"But this is the best part." Abbie said, finally grinning. She moved her finger and pointed to a new part of the excerpt. "Wraith kryptonyte? It's mistletoe." Kryptonyte was one of the few pop culture references Crane actually understood.

A shiver ran down Ichabod's spine as he stared into the creature's face. Underneath its black parchment hood was void. If a face had been there, he assumed it would be emaciated with age and decay. Beneath its portrait, three words were printed in a neat calligraphy. _ANIMA QUI REPETIT_, it read.

"Taker of souls," Ichabod muttered under his breath. His long pale finger reached out to graze the dark lettering. The page was cold under his touch- almost as if the Wraith itself had sucked all life from the harrowed pages. Around his hood, scraps of old fabric blew in the wind, remnants of the parchment cloak clasped around his neck. Crane corrected himself: _Its_ neck. The creature was entirely gender fluid, free of all distinctions between male and female. All possible classifications of who the soul had once belonged to were swept clean, left in the ground to rot with its body.

He quickly scanned the passage of text that continued below the drawing. The words outlined in fuller detail what Abbie had already told him, however one specific passage stuck out in his mind. He read it aloud to her.

"_As a servant to those who wield their Blade of Dominion, hordes of Wraith Daemons have been known to unwillingly pillage, reap and destroy some of the most fertile nations of peoples in Covenant history- most notably, the Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart in 1754._"

"Radiant Heart?" Abbie repeated, her brow furrowing, "Where have I heard that name before?"

"From Katrina." Ichabod told her, his face full of something unreadable, "The Sisterhood of the Radiant Heart was her Coven."

Abbie blinked, not knowing what to do.

A moment passed before anything was said between the two Witnesses. Abbie was never fully comfortable while discussing Katrina, so she carefully directed the conversation towards the passage in Crane's lap.

"So wraiths can be made into servants?"

"So it would seem." his voice was still detached, his mind elsewhere. _Thinking about Katrina, no doubt._

"Does that mean the ghost that attacked Elizabeth Graham was really sent there to kill her?"

That pulled Crane out of his stupor.

"Miss Mills," He turned in his armchair to look up at her, the arm that his chin had been resting on was suddenly brought down to the armrest with a _thud_. "I believe Elizabeth would be dead at his moment if it were not for the mistletoe protecting her home. Perhaps the one who possesses the Blade of Dominion wanted to murder her for some reason."

"Well it's not as if we don't know who sent them," she rolled her eyes. All this Anti-Apocalypse stuff was really tiring her out. She turned back to her stack of books, hoping to find solace in the chronicles of years gone by. "Moloch _obviously_ needs Elizabeth and Philip dead for some reason. We just need to figure out why."

"Then I believe we owe the Grahams a visit."

* * *

Abbie grabbed her jacket from the tall coat rack, perching momentarily on tip-toes to reach the collar of her leather bomber. A grin tugged at the corner of Ichabod's mouth, once again entertained by the petiteness of his closest friend (or _BFF_, as Miss Mills sometimes called him). He began to button up the chest of his old overcoat- now more like a second skin, _he never took the damn thing off_- as Abbie reached his side, zipping up to protect herself from the cold.

"Ready?" She asked, taking a deep breath and looking up to meet his eyes. The sides of her mouth were upturned in what he supposed was meant to be a reassuring grin. It offered no relief, but he appreciated the sentiment.

"As I'll ever be, Lieutenant," he answered, expelling a large breath as he lifted his arm, gentlemanly escorting her outside.

She blushed at the formality and took a step to exit, but not before Jenny called them back, appearing from the bowels of the Archive.

"Wait you two!"

"What is it, Jenny?" Abbie asked, huddling in her jacket to shield herself from the nippy corridor.

"Look up." A smirk played on her sister's face, as both she and Crane glanced up at the same moment. Above them, the plump white berries of a mistletoe clipping wrapped in a red bow decorated the archway of the door.

Abbie made no attempt to move away from Crane, but rolled her eyes, hoping it distracted from the blush moving further up her face and across her chest. "It's not even Christmas," Abbie deflected.

"Never too early to start!"

"Stop stealing the evidence!" Abbie shouted, before ushering a flushed Crane out the door and slamming it behind them.

The ride to Douglas Valley was quiet. Other than the hum of an alternative rock station playing quietly from the speakers, there were no sounds inside the car. Abbie let the countryside run past them as she drove, the town quickly turning to forest. Douglas Valley was a relatively new subdivision of homes at the edge of Sleepy Hollow's village proper, to where many of the town's elderly had decided to relocate in the past six months.

It wasn't so much of a secluded neighborhood, but rather a small subcommunity inside Sleepy Hollow (people around town were of course gossiping about what the group of elderlies were doing cooped up inside the gated community. Some said they were reliving the 1970's, but after meeting the Grahams, that was one image Abbie did not want to have in her mind's eye). As she drove them through the tall gates, Abbie and Crane could see the small strip of shops owned by some of the residents: grocer, clothier, the smallest post office Abbie had ever seen, and of course, Graham Antiquities.

When Miss Mills finally turned her Jeep into the car park of the strip mall, Ichabod released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Even after three years, motor vehicles were still something he had trouble with, and the motion sickness didn't help. Abbie lept from the car as he took his time unbuckling, going over the questions he hoped to ask Mr. Graham: _What is the purpose of the mistletoe in your home? Are you the ranchers of the aforementioned vegetations? What say you to the Evils plaguing this town?_

Abbie reached the door to the antique shop before Ichabod, and pushed the _Open_ door widely ajar. The interior of the store was not unlike any pawn shop Abbie had been in before: various items ranging in purpose and price, all with a fair amount of dust and holes littering them. She stood alone in the center of the shop, facing the counter, when a bell above the front door chimed. Abbie looked over her shoulder to see Crane enter. His eyes widened: eidetic memory already taking in and sorting away the items lining Mr. Graham's shelves. If there was something fishy about the Grahams, this was probably the place to go looking for evidence.

Abbie wandered around the premises, occasionally picking up or touching the less delicate wares. She noticed that a majority of the items available to touch seemed to be from the past 40 years, but along the walls ran glass domes housing items of much more prestigious value. On closer inspection of a particularly old wax doll beneath its dome, Abbie was near enough to read the ident-tag attached to her cotton pinafore: _Child's Wax Doll. Circa 1792. $1,500._

Underneath a display to the doll's left, was a crystal bowl full of spent musket shells. _Patriot Musket Shell Casings. Hudson Valley, NY. Circa 1780. $120/shell,_' it read. The shells had begun to crumble and rust with age, but appeared to be well looked after; In fact, many of the Revolutionary antiquities seemed to be in much better condition than any of the other pieces of merchandise in the entire shop.

"Hey Crane," Abbie called, getting his attention. He was across the room- staring at old scarves on a horizontal rack- when he turned around. She tapped at the glass protecting the bullets, directing his view towards them. The side of her mouth tugged with a sly smile, "These yours, old man?"

She didn't wait for his reply before she giggled, but moved out of the way so he could get a better look at them. "Very amusing, Lieutenant." he humored, rolling his eyes.

Abbie grinned while wandering over to the desk, where she rang the bell next to an old register. No one answered the call.

Crane wandered behind the counter and was now poking his head behind a curtain that probably lead to the back room.

"Lieutenant," he hailed. "I believe our search has come to an end."

Abbie strode over to Crane and looked past his bent shoulder, her boots clacking on the worn hardwood flooring of the shop. Through the doorway, Abbie could see nothing more than a few spare boxes and a circular table for employees to enjoy their lunch. Behind the table was a small kitchenette: sink, counter, and refrigerator, nothing fancy. There was a window in the corner of the room, right of the refrigerator, and it was casting a harsh afternoon shadow across a length of the space.

Sitting at the break table was Mr. Graham.

He was faced away from them, and when Abbie circled the room to get a better look at his face Crane remained stock still in the doorway.

Philip's salt and pepper hair seemed to have been scattered with much more greys than the last time Abbie had seen him. The wrinkles and bags beneath his circular glasses were hollowing his face, and along with the shadow covering his body, made the old man's features look skeletal.

It reminded Crane of the wraith's nonexistent- but emaciated- face that he had invented in his mind.

"Mr. Graham?" she called to him. He gave no reaction to their presence.

"Mr. Graham, it's Lieutenant Abbie Mills from the Sheriff's department." She clarified when he didn't respond, his glazed eyes lazy and unfocused, "I interviewed you about the creature that attacked your wife a few nights ago."

She moved to pull the glock from the holster on her right hip. Using her free hand, Abbie touched his shoulder, hoping he would turn around.

Huge mistake.

Before she could react and pull away, Mr. Graham's arm propelled out to take Abbie's in a vice-like grip. She wrestled to get free, but as she did, the fiercely strong nails tugging into her skin broke flesh, and her eyes threatened to begin flooding as a shooting pain spread through her.

Ichabod rushed to her side instantly, and grabbed hold of Phillip's wrists, trying to free his partner. It was no use. Mr. Graham's face was alight with rage, his eyes no longer the pretty baby-blues Abbie had noticed two days ago: these were deranged, livid eyes. Surrounding the pupils, the color was no longer glazed, but instead the irises had turned an electric bloodshot red.

Simply trying to pull away from his aggressive hold turned futile, and as the blood pooling at Abbie's wrist grew more intense, Phillip's frenzy grew fiercer.

"Crane! On the back of my belt, the pepper spray! Use it!" Abbie shouted.

Crane pounced at her backside, searching for the Mace attached to her hip. When he found it at last, he freed it from behind her empty holster (gun now lost on the floor) and sprayed liberally in her attacker's face.

Mr. Graham screamed, detaching himself from Abbie in an ardent attempt to nurse his burning retinas. Abbie screamed as well: residual Mace from the dispersal had flown into the gushing wound on her arm, burning all the way to her bone.

Crane wrapped his arms around Abbie protectively and pulled her to him, moving them to the far wall of the room. They watched Phillip writhe on the floor until he wore himself out, sagging defeatedly in weak heap.

They were both shaking, Abbie more so. The adrenaline coursing through the Lieutenant made her feel as though she would explode. She cradled her wounded arm with her uninjured left hand. Crane's arms were still wrapped around her shoulder and waist as they attempted to catch their respective breaths- but flushed this way against him, Abbie couldn't help but revel in the tightness of his stomach, or the contours of his waist clearly defined underneath his flimsy cotton button-up.

_Are you really thinking about this right now? You were just attacked! You're covered in blood! PRIORITIES!_

"What's wrong with his eyes? Other than the Mace, I mean." Abbie asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at him. Phillip's nearly closed eyes were overflowing with tears, but the burning red of his irritated skin was clearly visible from his fetal position on the floor.

Ichabod retracted his arms from Abbie's waist as he stepped around her, and crouched beside Mr. Graham. Crane cocked his head to the side and reached out to touch the now limp (but aware) form. Mr. Graham moaned indecipherably.

"They took his soul. He is still lucid, but dying slowly- I don't think there is anything to cure it." Crane removed his hand from Phillip's shoulder, standing back up to face this partner.

Abbie's brow furrowed, "And how do you know this?"

"No mistletoe. If the wraiths had managed to attack Mr. Graham here, then that means there was nothing protecting him. Perhaps he didn't know _how_ to protect himself."

Abbie nodded. "So he didn't know anything, after all."

"No, he didn't." said a voice from behind them.

In the doorway stood Mrs. Graham, with a clipping of mistletoe in her lapel.


End file.
